Waiting for Superman
by CantansAvis
Summary: Clint's missing; but he isn't the one waiting for Superman. Clintasha.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Why do almost ALL of my supposed one-shots turn into stories or a collection of one-shots lately? Silly plot bunnies. (Other supposed one-shots include The Mechanic, Somebody, and The Spotted Bandana.)

* * *

She was home. Or, at least, as close to home as she could get. Natasha watched as the yellow taxi cab pulled away, joining its fellows in the black rivers of Manhattan. She stared up the glass plated monstrosity before her. Stark and his masculinity-issues at their best.

Ever so slightly shifting the pack on her back, Natasha entered the glittering lobby. For the slob he was in the lab, Tony kept a neat business facility. She gave a small nod to the concierge on her way to the elevators.

Once the heavy doors closed, Natasha allowed herself to slouch and lean against the elevator walls. There was a lovely bed waiting for her. Like a commanding officer's whistle, the elevator pinged and Natasha stood at attention.

She pulled a pistol from her pack, ready to go through her routine. The elevator doors slid open.

She quickly entered the suite, her heels eerily making no noise as she surveyed each room. She checked each drawer; the small hair she left inserted in each one showed no sign of disturbance. The clothes that she "accidently" left all over the floor had also remained in place. The area was secure. With a tired sigh, Natasha came back to the living room, looking over the currently foggy city. She plopped onto the couch, happy to take off her killer (sometimes literally) high heels. The red light on her answering machine blinked incessantly, like a dying light at the end of a dock.

Lazy, finally allowing herself to feel the ache and pain of her muscles, Natasha poked the "play" button with her big toe. She smiled when she heard Clint's voice.

"_Hey, I heard your flight was postponed._" Partner talk for "You're back in town!"

"_I might be late picking you up. Having some technological issues at the laundromat, if you'd believe it._"

Natasha frowned. Was he still on a mission? He should have just left a note, in their code, of course. SHIELD still had difficulties trying to decipher it.

"_Should've taken Stark up on his offer of a new washing machine and dryer set. Even if he would have made them walk and talk and scare the shit out of me_."

Natasha grinned. So it really was laundry issues. Knowing Clint, he probably let all his laundry back up and didn't want Natasha to complain of the stench. He'd tried defending his reason for procrastinating once, but he ended up doing the whole team's laundry instead.

"_Anyway, I'll see you later. Don't wait up for me_."

She'd remember that voicemail later, when her lungs were scrambling against her body for air and a dark laugh hovered above her. But for now, she just looked out over the city, the fog rolling over the cityscape, ripe with the promise of a rainy night, of new life, of forgetting, of redemption.

* * *

Natasha woke up the next morning to silence. No omelettes burning on the stove as he sang off key to his latest favorite in the Top 40. No "Morning sleepyhead" or other terms of endearment that came with the response of a playful gag and toss of a pillow. Just quiet, sterile silence.

With the speed of _oh-crap-mission's-blown_, Natasha changed and grabbed her gun… only to run into the stoic wall that was Phil Coulson.

"Whoa there, Agent Romanoff." Sometimes Natasha wondered about Phil. Like how he could be the most robotic, yet most human person she'd ever known.

"Barton's missing," she huffed as she struggled against the literal wall that Phil was. When he did get so strong? Or rather, when did she get so weak?

"You're not thinking. That's why you can't get past me." When did Phil turn into a mind reader?

"And I'm not a mind reader." Natasha delicately raised an eyebrow. He mustered a grin. "You're predictable when you're in a panic."

Natasha opened her mouth, but Phil beat her to punch once more, "Yes, you're in a panic. Now sit down."

Natasha complied reluctantly, flopping onto the bed. She tried to lean back nonchalantly, failing as she remained stiff. "Last night, we gave Agent Barton a new mission."

Natasha sighed. So Clint was just on a mission. She could handle that. _He_ could handle that.

"He hasn't checked in."

That was normal. Sometimes Clint would do something Phil or SHIELD wouldn't approve of. Like making a different call. Natasha flopped onto the bed, a gentle smile on her face.

Now it was Phil's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"He's coming, Coulson. He's just a little bit late. He probably got his ass stuck somewhere, trying to create more paperwork for you." Natasha gave a light, breathless laugh. Everything was going to be okay.

Clint wouldn't let it end like this. No, if they were anywhere near the end it would be the best goddamn end ever, with a pyrotechnic show courtesy of Stark and Thor, some ear-shattering bellows from Banner, Rogers running, shield singing as projectiles bounced off it, and her and Barton running through hell, grinning like demons, like idiots, like they had something worth dying for.


	2. Chapter 2

It had been three weeks. Three weeks of her patience wearing thin, of growing desperation. Three weeks of quick prayers to a god she wasn't sure was there, of counting the stars to take her mind off the inevitable, of taking furtive glances at passing cars, thinking hopefully,_ took you long enough_. Three weeks of aimlessly wandering, thinking she'd catch some glimpse, some solace.

It had been three weeks when Natasha Romanoff glided into Phil Coulson's office, a silent storm quivering beneath her skin, a chill and dread frosting the air around her. While the junior agents avoided her more than an angry Fury, Phil just looked up at the lovely picture of death and silence and nodded. He handed her the crisp manila folder. Natasha gave a taut nod in return as her lithe fingers plucked the folder from his grip.

* * *

Budapest. It all came back to Budapest.

Natasha was at a local dance club, trying to remember, trying to forget. She stood at the bar, sipping at her club soda, thinking, _It's just another mission. It's just another mission. It's just another mission._ She eyed the man who had been sneaking stares at her for the past fifteen minutes.

Natasha caught his gaze and flashed her best faux smile.

_It's just another mission._

He smiled back, crystal eyes reflecting the flashing lights, but nothing of him, of his soul.

_It's just another mission._

He swaggered across the floor, never breaking eye contact. _Gotcha._

_It's just another mission._

"Hey there." Native. Educated. Upper middle class. Heavy accent. Her target.

_It's._

"Hey." She saw something flash in those crystal eyes. What was it?

_Just._

It was too fast. Just too fast.

_Another._

She felt a slight sting in her neck. The lights stopped flashing.

_Mission._

"As you Americans say, 'Gotcha.'"

It wasn't just another mission.

She was compromised.

* * *

Her name was Natasha Romanoff. She was raised in the Red Room. She was in Budapest for an assassination attempt. Clint Barton made a different call. She made a different call. She was a SHIELD agent. She was an Avenger. Their handler was Phil Coulson. Her teammates were Tony Stark, Steve Rogers, Bruce Banner, Thor, and Barton.

Natasha repeated her mini-biography over and over as the man kicked her and kicked her. _Her name was Natasha Romanoff…_

* * *

"Where is he?" the man, Ivan?, yelled. Why were they all named Ivan? Or maybe that's just what she wanted to call him. Natasha wasn't sure. _She was a SHIELD agent…_

Natasha, lying on her side on some cold concrete floor, spit near his foot. Another kick. Another broken rib._ ...teammates… Stark…_

She couldn't feel most of her body, that damned drug. She vaguely felt the sharp tug of her scalp and the burn of her broken ribs when Ivan pulled her head up by the knots in her hair. His breath was strangely sweet, tinged with the smoke of old cigars. "You are going to tell me where he is…"_ ...name ...Natasha…_

"Or you are going to die." She couldn't answer the question. That's why she was here in the first place. She panted, trying to catch a breath that couldn't be caught_. ...Clint ...different call._

Ivan grimaced. "I had hoped that the notorious Widow would have been more of a challenge."

* * *

Natasha wasn't on a concrete floor in the middle of Budapest anymore. She was flying, higher than Stark or Thor or the quinjet could ever take her. She swung past crystalline stars and humming angels. She never knew angels hummed. So that was the sound of the universe. Angels humming.

She glanced down, the cars speeding through their little labyrinths, each with their own sort of history, destiny, desire. In her euphoria, Natasha didn't notice something. She saw her hands… shimmering? No, they were like sand, and the faster she flew the more they eroded away.

Natasha tried to stop. But it seemed too late. She was going too fast, faster than the wind, than the light of the stars, creating gentle glows around those angels…

The angels. Natasha realized why their humming sounded familiar. It was a death march.

"Nat! Tasha! I'm here!"

She never saw their faces before. But now here they were. Each smiling a sad little smile, each dripping red, like her ledger.

"Nat, hold on, just hold on."

She was scared. Natasha hadn't been scared for so long. She didn't miss it.

"We're almost there, hon. Just hold on."

But he was here. The angels and their humming started to fade. The stars flickered. Her hands were intact. It hurt, so much… and she was so hot, so cold.

"Hey, just down the block. Just like last time."

Natasha winced, it hurt to try to stay together. But he was here. She had to. She wanted to.

The bell overhanging the door ringed, familiarly, comfortably. She felt a chuckle graze a few of the hairs on her head.

"At least you're not swearing in Russian at me this time."

* * *

**A/N:** One more chapter to go. Maybe I'll actually write my version of Budapest some other time. Tell me what you think. Thank you all so far for the support on this story!


	3. Chapter 3

The room was warm. Comfortable. Brown wallpaper with a fleur-de-lis pattern, trimmed with green. Soft, yellow light from a stand up lamp next to an old musty bookshelf and a similarly musty green loveseat. Natasha both loved and hated this room.

She loved most of its connotations. This room meant a soft bed, hot tea with honey, and those little oatmeal raisin cookies that Clint hated because he bit into them thinking they were chocolate chip.

She hated that this room meant failure. It meant she had screwed up somewhere. That the tea would initially burn a little too much, the cookies would be stale (though that may just be Clint's fault), her ribs would jostle around inside of her when Clint made her laugh.

"Hey there, sleepyhead." Natasha's eyes followed the voice to a mellow looking archer with that sad little smile she despised but was glad to see. She would throw his pillow at him, but it was too comfy. She might also throw up.

Natasha tried to get up, but Clint did that annoying_ tsk-tsk-tsk_ that he knew she hated. She leaned back onto the bed, staring at the yellowing ceiling. She wanted to yell at Clint when she heard the screech of the couch being dragged across the floor. They both knew he was perfectly capable of lifting of it. Lazy arse. Natasha could _feel_ the smug smile on his face. Oh, how she wanted to kick it off. She wanted to tell him that.

Her throat screeched like sandpaper and spikes. Maybe later. Clint smiled a bit wider as he looked at her.

"Yeah. Probably don't want to do that." He helped prop her up, ignoring the acid glares and silent swears. Clint plopped down onto the couch, sending a platoon of dust motes marching and swirling into the air.

It was quiet. But Natasha knew it wouldn't last long. This was_ Clint._

"So…" _And here we go_.

Clint grinned as he caught Natasha rolling her eyes. "Since you can't talk, I'll take both sides of the conversation." _Fun._

"I was actually here on a mission." Natasha raised a brow sarcastically._ Oh really?_

Clint resisted the urge to act like a child and stick out his tongue. "I was. An elimination mission. But I was doing something that Phil probably wouldn't approve of…" Natasha smiled. She would have to tell Phil_ I told you so_ when she got back home.

"I mean, this guy had a family. Well, sometimes they have a family as a shield, or as an image, or maybe it was a complete accident that luckily ends up like the previous two. But this guy…" Clint trailed off, rubbing the back of his neck. Natasha nodded, understanding.

"He wanted a family. He didn't want to do what his SHIELD file says he did. He just wanted to be with his family." Clint grimaced. Natasha wanted to lean towards him, to comfort him. But her ribs felt like they might fall into her stomach if she did.

"He would've been happy with less. Without anything he did that's in the SHIELD file. But he got in too deep with the scum 'round here. He was naive. It started off with just a favor, here and there. Then, well, it just spiraled out of his control. So I decided to help him escape." Clint looked like he wanted to crawl into the crevices of the couch, like he wanted to escape too.

"I knew SHIELD wouldn't want me to. So I cut off all contact. Like an idiot." Half of Natasha wanted to disagree vehemently, the other wanted to slap him and say,_ Yes, you were an idiot. You should have called me._

"I should have called you." Natasha stuck out her tongue. Clint gave in to his childish tendencies and stuck out his. "I know, I know. I should've known you would've been stupid enough, loyal enough, to come after me."

Natasha kept a blank face. She wasn't actually sure why she went after Barton. Sure, she could call it loyalty, but it was more than that. It was the fact she needed to know if he was dead or alive. To know he was okay. And it was selfishness. She needed Clint. She wasn't sure why, but she needed to hear his purposefully off-key singing in the morning, his husky, low lullabies that chased the nightmares, the darkness, away. She needed his over-cooked omelettes and snarky comments and open smile. Natasha Romanoff needed Clint Barton, but like any good SHIELD agent, and she was one of the best, she'd die before she admitted or revealed anything.

Clint huffed out a laugh. "You were stupid enough to help me, your almost-assassin, last time we were here." He ran a hand through his hair. "Though the Russian swears weren't comforting. In fact, you were scaring the shit out of me." Natasha couldn't help it; she laughed and it felt so good, but it hurt so much. She started coughing, feeling like she was going to hack out a rib.

Next thing she knew, there was a glass of water in her shaky hand and the fire in her throat was quenched. As Clint helped her lay back down, she looked at him and realized, seeing that crinkle in his brow and those grey eyes, that he knew.

He knew how much she needed him. He knew that when they got back, things would be different. Better, worse, only their team could tell. But he would still over-cook omelettes and hate oatmeal raisin cookies. He would still try to sing opera in the shower and hunt down the nightmares, using his master accuracy.

As Natasha felt her eyes grow heavy with exhaustion, she felt the lightest of kisses on her cheek, a whisper of words she couldn't make out, but understood. It was a single breath of words, a breath filled with life and promise. Promise that he'd always try to be there. Promise that he wouldn't promise absolutes. That all he could truly promise is that his aim would stay straight.

As Natasha faded into unconsciousness, she swore she could hear the twanging of his bow against a background of a quiet lullaby, deep like the darkness, like the monsters that Clint shot down. One. At. A. Time.

* * *

** A/N**: Well, the plot bunnies might attack again. There might be a Budapest story. Evil little creatures.

Glad someone caught the Gatsby reference earlier. Love Fitzgerald, he's just has this amazing, lyrical writing.

Thanks for reading!


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